Simple
by LJ9
Summary: [Miracle] Phil Verchota learns that the things he thinks are simple never are.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own the real people, the state of Minnesota, or Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Author's Notes: I wanted to write about Phil Verchota and Minnesota, because I miss the Midwest and Verchota alternately reminds me of my brother and some of the guys on my college track team. I therefore have a fondness for Verchota, and I wanted to work with him, and to give the Midwest boys a shot.

I'm trying for a multi-chapter story! I know, madness. We'll see how it works out.

Thanks to **meadow567**, **1-800-epk-fano**, **Golden Gopher Hockey**, **Emador**, and **Adiemus1** for their reviews.

"Never trust someone who refuses to drink domestic beer, laugh at the Three Stooges, or crank _Back in Black_." --David Cantwell in a review of AC/DC's album

* * *

**SIMPLE**

Liking simple things doesn't make you simple.

Plenty of people who know me might disagree, or agree, but say that an exception had been made in my case. I admit that I'm not the brightest guy out there, but I _did_ earn a degree in college. It wasn't all playing hockey.

I used to think hockey was simple. Sure, there's all kinds of complex physical things--it's a hell of a lot harder than walking and chewing gum at the same time--but when you get down to it, all you're really trying to do is put your puck in the net and stop the other guy from doing the same thing. Simple.

That's what I thought until I met Herb Brooks. Nothing with him is ever simple. Sometimes I still think he got hit maybe one too many times; some of the things he says are just _weird_. And behind it all is some goal that normal people occasionally know, and some master plan that no one else can ever figure out. But I guess it works. We won the national championship, right?

See, I'm from Minnesota, which to a lot of people is practically Canada. Up here pretty much everyone knows how to skate, because when you combine lots of lakes with lots of cold, there's lots of skating to do. Not everyone plays hockey. Some people just skate around in circles, and the kids play tag and stuff. Little girls try to be figure skaters, and some of them take lessons and compete. I didn't pay attention to any of them, though. I never paid much attention to anyone on skates who didn't have either a stick or a whistle.

My mom still has all of my skates from over the years hanging on a wall in the attic. You can see them starting out little and then getting bigger as I grew up. It looks like some display at a ski lodge or something, like someone bought all different size skates and put them up there to look cute and sporty. If it weren't in the attic, and it weren't Minnesota, and it weren't my mom, that's how it would look. But it's just the way things are. Simple.

* * *

Knowing Herb, I shouldn't've been surprised about the way tryouts went. We checked in on Monday, and after that first day we knew the first cut. So there I was: one step closer to playing hockey on the Olympic team. It seemed kind of strange for so many guys to go to Colorado for just one day on the ice, but then the master magician himself descended and made a little speech and I remembered that we were dealing with a possible lunatic, and now I was going to be stuck with him for the foreseeable future, and hopefully until February. 

It was nice seeing some of the guys again. I don't know why, but I'd been a little worried that I wouldn't know anyone once I got to the tryouts. But there was Buzz Schneider right when I walked in, and Mark Pavelich, and Rob McClanahan, and enough guys I knew to make me feel better. Not that I was nervous about the tryouts. It's just nice seeing a friendly face.

And wouldn't you know we'd need it. Four guys from Boston University had made it, and it sounded like one of them was still hung up on losing the '76 playoffs. I guess it's easy for me to say, being on the winning end and all. Mac said one of the Boston guys, that Eruzione kid, seemed all right, though, so there was probably nothing to worry about. Besides, it's hockey. Guys get hit and they get over it. Eventually. Simple.

* * *

One of those simple things I like is beer. Yeah, I know that there's complex technical stuff that goes into making it, but for me it's as uncomplicated as opening a bottle or going to the bar and asking for a Pabst Blue Ribbon. 

"Do you actually like that stuff, or just that it's cheap?" Buzz asked me once. Truth be told, I actually do like it, and I can drink a lot of it, which is why I like that it's cheap. Besides, when you're far from home, you want something familiar, even if it is just cheap beer. So while the other guys tried to work on the tests Coach Patrick had handed out, I drank my Pabst and laughed. Like I said, I know Herb. The test was a surprise to a lot of the guys, but not me.

"So what do you think of this team?" John Harrington asked once he'd finished his test, or at least given up. He was a tall, goofy guy, and it was a little hard to take things he said seriously sometimes, but we had reached the point in the night when the inevitable had surfaced. "Think we've got a chance?"

"What, at winning?" Buzz asked. "The _Olympics_? Us?"

"Aw, come on. We're good hockey players. Don't sound so doubtful," Mike Ramsey said.

"Guys," Pav said, "we're going to the Olympics." Something in the way he said it made us all pause and consider this. Nobody corrected him that there were still six cuts to be made; we all looked around the table at each other and then everybody grinned.

"Whoever would've thought that a bunch of guys from Minnesota would be playing on the Olympic hockey team?" I said.

Harrington shook his head. "Not just Minnesota." We all turned and looked at the table where most of the guys from Boston were sitting. That is, until one of them stood up and stalked out of the bar.

"Is O'Callahan _really_ still mad about the championship?" Rammer asked. He actually seemed upset by the idea.

"He doesn't strike me as a happy guy. I wouldn't be surprised if he were still upset," Buzz said. "But like Pav said, this is the Olympics. It's bigger than just a national championship. It's... it's... an _inter_national championship!"

We all laughed, and Harrington said, "Good job, Schneider."

"All I'm saying is, this is more important, and O'Callahan's an idiot if he lets the '76 playoffs get in the way of playing in the Olympics." Buzz crossed his arms, satisfied with his explanation. I rolled my eyes at him and addressed the table.

"Well, I don't know about you boys, but I'm not here to worry about the past or some guy who got his feelings hurt. I came to play hockey, plain and simple, and that's what I'm going to do."

* * *

I really should have known better. 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

A/N: Oh, Johnson. You've obviously never encountered any fangirls. :)

* * *

At the end of the week, USA Hockey flew us all back to Minneapolis. I was a little surprised that Coach Brooks didn't give his travel dress "you're representatives and gentlemen" speech, but, like Steve Janaszak said, he probably wanted to see if we--or at least everybody who didn't already know his expectations--would have enough sense to dress nicely. "Besides, Phil, this isn't school anymore," Jannie laughed. "We're responsible adults now."

"Heaven help us," Buzz muttered.

* * *

We sat in alphabetical order by last name on the plane, so I was between Bob Suter and Mark Wells. Suter slept almost the whole time, and Wells read a magazine. I think it was the same one the whole time, because I never saw him put it down or pick another one up. Most of the time I watched Jack O'Callahan, sitting a couple rows ahead, flirting with a stewardess. He didn't _seem_ like a bad guy. The stewardess seemed to think he was okay, that's for sure. All right, so maybe he was a little intense, but you want that in a teammate. And besides, Buzz was right. If O'Callahan was on the Olympic team and still mad about some national championship, he had to be stupid. And even if he were that stupid, which I seriously doubted, it wasn't my problem anyway.

"Welcome home, boys!" Bah said, throwing his arm around me and Rammer. "It's good to be back."

Pav grimaced. "I almost forgot about the humidity. Can I go back to Colorado?" I laughed. Pav may not be the most outgoing, but he's a good guy, solid and funny. Most people just don't take the time to get to know him and find out what he's really like.

"I hear you on that," said a guy behind us. We turned around to see Jim Craig, the goalie from Boston. He smiled. "And I thought Massachusetts was humid. Warn a guy next time, huh?"

"Welcome to Minnesota," Pav said dryly.

Jim laughed. "I know who you are, but we've never been introduced. I'm Jim Craig."

"John Harrington--"

"Bah," Pav corrected him.

"--and these are Mark Pavelich, Mike Ramsey, and Phillip J. Verchota. Nice to meet you."

"You guys all go to the University of Minnesota?"

"Nah, just Phil and Rammer. Me and Pav went to UMD."

Jim frowned. "Pretend for a minute that I'm from Boston and don't know what UMD is."

I laughed. This guy wasn't afraid to be himself, and I had to respect that. Bah said, "There's more than one University of Minnesota. UMD is the one at Duluth."

"You mean there are enough high school graduates in the state of Minnesota to warrant more than one university?" Jim asked, faking shock.

"They've got to have somewhere to keep all us hockey players," Rammer spoke up. "That is, until they let us out to beat Boston." He smiled innocently, and Jim laughed.

* * *

Maybe if I'd paid more attention in psych I would understand people better. As it is, they keep throwing me curveballs. Like Jack O'Callahan. Here I was all ready to think that he was a decent guy, and then he goes and checks Rob McClanahan out of nowhere, like they weren't even on the same team. I've seen guys hit their worst rivals with less force than this. So I admit that I was wrong about him.

It wasn't _all_ O'Callahan's fault, though. Well, holding a grudge for three years was, but he didn't actually start the fight. Mac got up and hit him back. I'm not saying I wouldn't have done the same thing, but Mac seemed about to let the check go until Jack told John, "Tell your boy here to keep his head up and he won't have to worry about it." I don't know if it was the reminder that they were on different sides, or the suggestion that Mac--Rob McClanahan, for Pete's sake--needed advice on how to play hockey, but after Jack said that, Rob came up swinging. Me, I would've hit O'Callahan before he had a chance to say anything. But the result would have been the same.

Herb just let them fight. I was starting to think he was one of those people who enjoyed watching other people's pain. He didn't let Coach Patrick stop Mac and O'Callahan from beating on each other, probably because there wasn't any danger of it becoming a Midwest-Boston brawl. When both guys fell on the ice, Rizzo pulled Jack up, and Bah and I grabbed Rob. His nose was bleeding, but otherwise he didn't look too hurt. I wasn't looking forward to what Herb was going to say, though. Mac may have gotten punched in the face, but all of us were going to hurt for it.

"You want to settle old scores, you're on the wrong team," Herb said. I shot a look at Buzz, who shook his head. "We move forward starting right now. We start becoming a team _right_ _now_."

He asked Rob and then Jack to introduce themselves. Even if he hadn't just got into a fight with a friend of mine, I would have thought O'Callahan was a cocky bastard from the way he introduced himself. I was ready to go hit him myself. He probably thought he won because he didn't have any blood on him. I felt like such a moron for thinking he might have been okay. It didn't matter that no one else knew; _I_ knew, and nobody likes feeling stupid.

A guy with a serious mustache was introducing himself when I started paying attention again. "I'm Ralph Cox... I'm from wherever's not gonna get me hit," he joked. I shook my head, trying not to smile. He didn't seem so bad. _But that's what you thought about O'Callahan, too_, I reminded myself. As Herb sent us to the goal line, I sighed. If things kept up like this, it was going to be a long time until February.

* * *

"Are you just determined not to like any of the guys from Boston?" Pav asked after practice. We were out in the rink parking lot, getting ready to go to get dinner. All right, dinner and then probably some beers. Okay, dinner and then _definitely_ some beers. First I had to clear some space to sit in Pav's car, though. "Just throw that in the trunk."

"I'm not determined not to like them. None of them have made a good impression so far." I shoved some boxes around in the trunk to make space for a duffel bag that felt like it was full of marbles.

"Oh. So that's why Jim Craig came up and introduced himself."

I grunted.

"And why Mac said Rizzo introduced himself at try-outs."

I finally gave up and tossed the bag on top of a box, then looked over the top of the trunk. Pav was leaning against the car, waiting patiently. "O'Callahan's an asshole with a bad attitude. Even you can't deny that. And that Dave Silk was egging him on." I slammed the trunk a little harder than necessary, and Pav winced.

"We weren't exactly telling Mac to stop."

"That's different!"

"How?"

"It just _is_!"

"Right." I glared at him, but didn't say anything. He was right. Maybe I was being illogical, but you don't just come into somebody's territory and hit them. Unless you're stupid. It was becoming clearer and clearer, at least to my mind, that Jack O'Callahan really was just simply stupid. I walked around the car and looked across the roof at Pav.

"I don't see how you can be so calm about it. He comes in here, thinking he can do whatever he wants, that he can just hit us and get away with it, and you don't even get mad?"

"I never said I was happy about it, Phil, but I don't see what me being mad about it is going to help, and your being mad isn't going to help either. Look, don't make trouble for yourself, all right?"

Bah and Rammer walked up then, with Mark Johnson trailing behind them. "What are you standing around talking for?" Bah said. "Start the car! Let's go!"

"I'm starving," Rammer added, pulling open the door behind me. "Oh, and Johnson's coming with." Johnson smiled a little.

"Better get in, or Bah and Rammer will waste away," I said, more shortly than I'd meant to, before I climbed in the front.

Pav turned around from the driver's seat and stuck his hand back. "I'm Mark Pavelich. Call me Pav."

"Mark Johnson."

"'m Phil Verchota. Sorry if I'm a jerk."

They all laughed. "Apologizing in advance is never a good sign, Philly," Rammer said.

"Yeah, what's your problem today?" Bah asked.

"Nothin'," I mumbled. Thankfully, Johnson wanted to know how he got the nickname "Bah" anyway, and the story took up the rest of the ride, and most of dinner. I don't know how Bah finished his burger, because he seemed to be talking the whole time. But I was feeling a lot better by the time we piled back into Pav's car to head to the bar.

* * *

"How did they manage to find the one bar in Minneapolis that we were coming to tonight?" We stood in the doorway and stared across the bar to where O'Callahan, Rizzo, Dave Silk, Ralph Cox, and Jim sat.

"Um..." We turned around to see Rammer red-faced and looking embarrassed. "I might have said that it's the only decent place around." Bah just rolled his eyes.

"We could just leave and go somewhere else?" Johnson suggested.

"Or we could join them and be good teammates," I heard Pav say. Leave it to Pav to suggest the most grown-up and civilized thing. It obviously wasn't going to happen, though, from the looks on Johnson, Bah, and Rammer's faces.

I felt like it was my turn to be mature. "We can stay. It's a big enough place." I couldn't help adding, "They might not even notice we're here."

We found a table where we could keep an eye on the other guys, but they couldn't see us. Apparently that maturity thing had been short-lived, although Pav did ask, "Why are we hiding over here?"

"I don't know about you, but I don't want any more conflict today," Johnson answered. "All I want is to have a beer in peace and quiet, and it seems like the odds of that are better over here than over there." Pav shrugged, and Bah ordered a pitcher of Pabst for us.

The pitcher was slow coming but quick in going. When we'd drained it and looked around for our waitress to bring us another, she was nowhere to be found. "Probably went on break and forgot about us," Rammer said. Then I heard a loud giggle, and male laughter that sounded distressingly familiar. Pav leaned back in his chair and looked around the partition that kept us out of sight.

"I hate to say this, but I found our waitress."

Now, as I may have mentioned before, hockey players are a dime a dozen around here. Hockey players who look and sound like our teammates from the northeast, however, are not. Our waitress was currently being charmed by some Boston accents, just like the stewardess on the plane had been.

"Aw, jeez."

"I'm so thirsty. I need more beer!" Bah wailed.

"Do _you_ want to go over and get her?" Rammer demanded. Bah shook his head.

"I guess we just wait then," Johnson sighed.

When she finally walked by, Bah set his empty mug down with a thud and remarked loudly, "I'd sure like another beer, hey, boys?"

The waitress finally stopped then. "I'm sorry to take so long. We're really busy tonight."

"Busy talking to OC's boys," Rammer muttered.

"So what's the deal with those guys over there?" Johnson asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the other table. The girl's face lit up.

"Oh! They're from Boston, here for the Olympic hockey team."

"So are we," I said. "Here for the Olympic team, I mean."

"Really?" she replied, looking us over without sounding at all interested. There you go. Minnesota hockey players are like lakes--there might as well be ten thousand of 'em.

The waitress picked up our empty pitcher. "You guys want another? Pabst, right?" She walked away before we could answer.

"Huh," Pav said.

"I guess regular Minnesota hockey players aren't good enough to attract girls anymore," said Rammer.

Bah laughed. "When's the last time you attracted a girl because you were a hockey player, Ramsey?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "You'd be surprised."

"I wonder if Wisconsin is good enough," Johnson mused. "Probably not. Wisconsin's probably boring, too."

Bah looked around the table. "This is pathetic," he said. "They're taking our women, boys, and I for one am not going to stand for it."

We all laughed, even though he sounded completely serious. Johnson said, "I think girls are the last thing we have to worry about."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I'm alive and updating, in case anybody was worried. :) Thanks to meadow567 and Emador for their reviews.

* * *

Herb was working us like slaves, on and off the ice, five days a week. (Johnson joked that all Herb needed was a whip to be a real slave driver. At least, I think he was joking. Sometimes it was hard to tell with Johnson.) Life became a blur of drills, film, weights, showers taken half-conscious, and Herb's voice giving orders through it all. Unless something remarkable happened, all the days seems the same in memory. It was the hardest I'd ever worked. At least we were all in it together, though. Not to say that sometimes I didn't want to smack any of the other guys; Rizzo could be encouraging to the point where almost it made you sick, and Rammer liked to hum while we were doing wall sits. I guess there are always going to be little things that drive you crazy when you spend all your time with the same group of guys—I tried thinking about what habits I had that might get on somebody's nerves and stopped when I realized that if I had to be on a team with me, I probably would hate myself before too long—but for the most part, everyone got along pretty well. The feud between Minnesota and Boston even slowly fizzled out, although Mac and OC weren't quite ready to join hands and sing "Kumbaya" together yet.

I rode home with Bah one weekend to get a break from things. It hadn't been that long, only a month or two, but as we rolled down the street toward my parents' house, it seemed like years since I'd last been there. I felt a sudden lightness, and told Bah to have a good weekend with a happy smile. Until he came to pick me up on Sunday afternoon, I was free from hockey, the team, and Herb.

The house still smelled like dinner, and I could hear my mom singing in the kitchen. Dad's recliner was empty, so I guessed he was doing some chores, or maybe at the bowling alley, though I couldn't remember when league night was. I dropped my bag by the front door and snuck toward the kitchen, doing my best to be quiet; the years of practice and my natural lack of grace canceled each other out in that respect. In the kitchen doorway I stood and watched my mother wash dishes for a moment. She was singing "Don't Fence Me In" in the slightly off-key voice that I'd inherited, and her hair looked shorter than I remembered. When she finished singing, I stepped in and said, "I hope there's leftovers."

She jumped, startled, and turned. "Phil! What are you doing here? Oh my goodness, you weren't cut, were you?" She wiped her soapy hands on a towel and came toward me with arms outstretched.

"I'm fine, Ma, I haven't been cut," I said as she reached up to hug me. "I just… wanted to see you and Dad. Where is he?"

"Oh, who knows. Probably out with the dogs." She must've read my mind, because Mom added, "And don't you even think about going out there until you've had something to eat." She pointed sternly at the table and started pulling things from the refrigerator. While she fixed my plate, she asked more questions than I could possibly answer, just as she had in college and even high school when I'd come in late from practice or a game.

"How are the boys doing? And Mark? You tell him he should come up and visit next time you come home." That's Pav for you, the kind of guy mothers everywhere want their kids to be friends with.

"Pav's doing good, Mom. He wanted to make sure I told you he said hi." She beamed. "You should see it. Herb's got him on a line with two other guys, Bah Harrington and Buzz Schneider, you remember him? We call them the Coneheads."

"That hardly seems nice, Phillip." She set a full plate and a fork in front of me, then sat scross the table and gave me a disapproving shake of her head.

"They don't care. We're not saying it to be mean. It's not like we don't like them or anything." I shoved a forkful of pot roast into my mouth. "You'd have to have a heart of stone not to like these guys."

"Speaking of hearts of stone, how is Coach Brooks?" At that I laughed so hard that I nearly choked.

"Are you trying to kill my boy, woman?" I heard my dad ask as he thumped me on the back. I coughed and took a sip of water before standing up to hug my dad briefly. Dad and I had been about the same height since I was a senior in high school, but I'd only once made the mistake of thinking that our equal height made us equal in other ways. My dad was usually calm, but if he got riled up, he could make your life miserable. Luckily, his anger was almost always short-lived, unlike mine. "Hi, Philly."

"Hi, Dad."

"Been here long?"

"Not too long."

"Here all weekend?"

"Yes, sir."

He nodded. "Y'ought to go out and see the dogs once you're done. They'll be happy to see you." It was his way of saying that he was happy to see me, too.

I finished eating as quickly as I could, except for two little pieces of meat that I slipped into my hand. I put the plate and fork in the dishwater, not meaning for my mom to have to do it, but knowing that she would anyway. I felt a little guilty about it, but the guilt was quickly replaced by excitement as I headed into the backyard.

The sky was dark gray, and stars were beginning to blink into view. I jumped down the three steps from the back door to the yard, something I'd done ever since I was little, and sat on the bottom step, watching the stars come out. We were still far enough away from the city lights to see most of the stars on clear nights, and I tried to pick out the few constellations I knew. It was quiet, and I could hear some of the neighbor kids playing down the street. It made me smile, remembering how Mom always reminded me to be in before the street lights came on. Even now she nagged me to get enough sleep and not stay up until all hours of the night.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my hands stretched out in front of me with a bit of meat in each palm. Although I couldn't actually see the dogs, I heard them rustling around the trees, and whistled quietly. They're hunting dogs, Labrador retrievers to be exact, even if they don't actually get to go hunting as much as they'd like. I wasn't really supposed to be feeding them scraps, but I couldn't help it. I always missed them when I went away. Suddenly two shapes bounded out of the darkness, and there was a single happy bark from Skippy.

"Hey, dogs," I said as they licked the leftovers out of my hands. Duke finished his treat and sat obediently at my left hand, which I wiped on my jeans and then scratched his head. Skippy, her coat shining nearly white, was still busy licking all traces of pot roast from my hand, wagging her tail the whole time. When she was finally done I sat still for a moment, and then launched off the step and tackled her. She barked again, and Duke jumped on my back and joined us in our wrestling.

Dad had decided when I was in junior high that he needed a good hunting dog, one that he'd trained himself, so he got a little brown puppy he named Duke. Duke was quiet and patient and smart, and he learned really quickly how to fetch and heel and stay. In high school Dad thought that I needed my own dog, so he came home one day with a wiggly yellow puppy that liked to bark, pee, and chew. If Duke was like my dad, Skippy was like me, loud and not too smart. I managed to teach her not to eat people's shoes and not to bark, although sometimes she just couldn't help herself. It was funny to see Duke sitting calmly in the yard while Skippy raced around chasing squirrels. There was nothing I liked better than to come home and roll around with Skippy and Duke. I loved them, and they loved me, and no matter how crazy anything else got, it would always be that simple.

* * *

I woke up on Saturday morning with the sun shining on my face and the sound of lawnmowers running. It was only just past nine, but I'd already slept in over two hours. When I glanced at the clock, a brief feeling of frozen panic washed over me. I was late for practice and Herb was going to _kill_ me, slowly and very, very painfully. Then I heard Mom's voice in the hall and I remembered that I was at home, that it was Saturday, that I didn't have practice, and that hell, I could go back to sleep if I wanted to. Or at least I could have if I hadn't just felt pure adrenaline pumping through my veins and seen my entire life flash before my eyes. I got up and wandered into the kitchen.

Dad was there, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He nodded at me as I opened the refrigerator and stared in. If I were with the team, there would be some leftover pizza somewhere, or maybe even some meatballs—Rizzo always made a ridiculous amount of meatballs. I settled for some orange juice and a bowl of cereal.

I heard Dad finish his coffee and rinse out his mug behind me. "Your mother's out at a garage sale, but I'll be mowing the lawn if you need anything," he said.

"I can do it," I offered. He looked at me a little funny, so I said, "Really, I'd like to, if you don't mind."

Dad smiled a little and shrugged. "If you really want to. Finish your breakfast first."

After I mowed the lawn, front and back, I washed the car, and then washed the dogs, since I was washing stuff. Duke was never too fond of being washed, so I had to chase him around the yard for a while before I could catch him and chain him up. Skippy seemed to think that if Duke ran away from me, she should too, and once I had her chained up she snapped at the water coming out of the hose. "Herb would find a way to make a drill out of you two," I muttered as they shook their wet coats off.

When Mom got back I was hanging a load of clean laundry on the clothesline out back. "Phillip, have you done something wrong?" she asked.

I looked at the laundry with a frown. "I don't think so. I washed them in cold water, and I checked all the pockets before I put the pants in..."

"I meant the fact that you've cut the grass, washed the car--" Skippy ran up to her and she added "--and the dogs, and you've done laundry. You usually don't do chores like this unless you feel guilty about something."

"Well, if you don't want me to help, I could stop. I could let the dogs get all dirty and then let them roll around on my clothes and drive the car down a dirt road." I hung up some socks and then grinned. "But I can't undo cutting the grass."

Mom rolled her eyes. "Okay, smart guy. You certainly have a lot of energy, don't you? I thought you'd like to spend your weekend off relaxing, not doing chores. You don't have to do any of this, you know."

"I know."

I _did_ have a lot of energy, and I don't think I could have sat still even if I tried. I went with Mom when she ran errands that afternoon, happily pushing the cart at the grocery store and carrying bags of fertilizer at the nursery. After dinner I felt some of my restlessness fade away as we sat on the front porch until the sun went down.

* * *

On Sunday I was a little less frenetic. Dad and I cleaned some of his guns and then took them and the dogs out to the range and checked the sights. Except for the crack as we fired, it was a quiet time, neither one of us saying much. Back at home, Mom was in the kitchen again, doing who knows what. She'd also done the rest of my laundry, so I watched football with Dad.

Just after dinner the doorbell rang and Mom let Bah in while I was getting my bag. He grinned when I walked in, looking strangely relieved, and I felt the same. I ran out back and hugged the dogs quickly, then my parents. Dad talked with Bah a little about the game on TV while Mom clutched at me. "Hold on one minute," she ordered, hurrying into the kitchen and coming back with a large cardboard box which she pushed into my arms.

"What is this?" I asked, trying to look inside.

She smiled. "Just a little something to share with your teammates, especially the ones who can't just drive home for the weekend, those poor boys." I rolled my eyes. "I hope you all like oatmeal raisin," she told Bah.

"You made cookies for the whole team?"

"Mrs. Verchota, we will eat anything, but especially cookies," Bah assured her. "Thanks. I know the rest of the team will appreciate it."

I hugged Mom and Dad again and then finally got out the door. I threw my bag in the back of Bah's car and then set the box down more carefully. My parents stood at the front door and waved as we drove away, and I waved back until we turned the corner. I turned to Bah.

"Did you have a good weekend, Bah?"

A complicated look crossed Bah's face, and he didn't answer for a minute. Finally he said, "Yeah. It was good to see my parents, and sleep in my own bed--"

"And eat something other than pizza and meatballs?"

He laughed, then paused before saying somewhat hesitantly, "But, you know, call me crazy... but I missed the team."

I shook my head. "You're not crazy."

It probably _was_ crazy, really, but if it was, we would at least be crazy together. In a few days I'd forget about how quiet and empty the house seemed, and those little habits would start getting on my nerves again. But as we walked up the stairs and I heard the guys' voices, I felt that sudden lightness again.

"Hey, what's in the box, Verchota?" Rizzo asked.

Bah smirked. "Phil's mommy made us all cookies."

Heads started popping out of doorways. "Did somebody say cookies?" Cox asked, mustache bristling as he sniffed the air. The boys started coming toward me, so I set the box down in the middle of the hall and backed away.

Pav smiled. "Welcome back, Phil."

"Aw, did you miss me?"

He rolled his eyes. "We missed you ever so much," he deadpanned. "It just wasn't the same without you."

I looked around at the guys. "I know exactly what you mean."


End file.
